


Winter in the West

by Hrafnsvaengr



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A Mysterious Stranger - Freeform, Basically everyone is in this damned thing, Canadian style, F/M, I'm keeping it simple for now, M/M, More characters and tags and relationships will be added as I go, Multi, Western, Wild West
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 08:09:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6415750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hrafnsvaengr/pseuds/Hrafnsvaengr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a summer’s day, when the dust of the road puffed in little clouds underfoot, a man walked into town. It was this man who turned a simple town into the centre of a story which, if you know what palms to grease and which people to ply with strong liquour, you may yet be told to this day.</p><p>It all began when a man walked into town who had never been seen there before…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter in the West

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by this post --> [Click me](http://skylarkevanson.tumblr.com/post/141759875299/sierrasanator-mamalaz-the-avengers-as-a) although I've taken it in a different direction as to who's whom and all that. I'm not sure whether all the stories I have planned will end up in this one story or as separate stories in a series, but either way, I've got a lot of ideas for this thing, so we'll see how that goes.
> 
> The first chapter here is super short, but it's just the introduction. The first "real" chapter is to come in the next few days, so it shouldn't be long.

If you leave, heading west out of Calgary, past Bearspaw, past Cochrane, past Ghost Lake, just to where the mountains begin and the Bow River begins to meander through the rocky slopes, if you know where to look and are careful not to miss it, you still might find the sign pointing the way to the former town Coulsonville. The sign is small and hasn't been painted in many years, but it still stands in that place where once, long ago, in that narrow mouth between the mountains, an extraordinary town stood.

There's nothing left of the town now, but if you look closely, you might be able to spot a few signs that it was once there. There are no buildings left, there are no streets, but if you look at the right spot between two trees, you might find the stream where copper was first found. Down the stream in the little clearing you might find the old wood stump left behind when the first tree was cut to make the roughly made building which would become the saloon. The main town road ran across a little bridge which dipped slightly in the middle as it crossed the trickling brook.

Here, Tony’s Saloon, there, across the road, Nicola’s Stables, and next to it, the new telegrapher’s building. Built as a new line coming up from the United States, the telegraph was to revolutionise the small town. Continuing down the road is the Romanov House; a brothel in name, though any man who’s sought services there has come out a little more than disappointed. Then, the shop of the barber-surgeon with its white pole outside striped in red with the stained bandages of his patients.

Across the street again, over the wooden boardwalks that lined each side so the mud of the dirt road didn’t stain expensive clothes, was the shop of Rogers, Barrister and Solicitor At Law. And next to that, the eternally empty miners’ hall. Beyond the ragged collection of shops, most with housing on their top floor for the proprietors below, was the small collection of houses where the rest of the townsfolk lived, what few there were.

And last, on the hill across the stream, removed from the hustle and bustle of the town, was the small chapel. It was painted a shining white and topped with a small blue cross which the pastor had to repaint every year or two lest it fade or begin to flake. Behind the chapel was the small plot of land where a few lonely gravestones stood. The town wasn’t old enough to warrant a large living population, let alone a large dead one.

Even though the town is gone now, a victim to the railroads passing it by, there still live stories deep in the bones of the place. And that is where this tale begins. On a summer’s day, when the dust of the road puffed in little clouds underfoot, as a man walked into town. It was this man who turned a simple town into the centre of a story which, if you know what palms to grease and which people to ply with strong liquour, you may yet be told to this day.

It all began when a man walked into town who had never been seen there before…

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for this go to Ava for putting up with my semisensical rambling about this. They're awesome. And thanks go to me for betaing this. I worked very hard on reading my own drivel. :P


End file.
